  Jonathan Barlow loved wet skies, And golden leaves on a rollick wind ... The clouds drip damp on his crumbled eyes, And the storm his roystering dirge hath dinned. Proud buck rabbits he loved, and the feel Of a finicky nose that sniffed his hand: So now they burrow, and crop their meal; Their fore-paws scatter him up in sand. He loved old bracken, and now it pushes Affectionate roots between his bones: He runs in the sap of the young spring bushes, —Basks, when a June sun warms the stones. Jonathan Barlow loved his Connie Better than beasts, or trees, or rain ... But her ears are shut to her Golden-Johnnie, And his tap, tap, tap, at her window-pane. |
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